


A Little Hard To Get

by handsinforests



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Lil bit of detailed smut, bar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsinforests/pseuds/handsinforests
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts off as a celebration for making it to their senior year of college. What Clarke doesn't expect however, is for the tall, closed off bartender to catch her eye. When the dirty blonde haired woman refuses to tell her her name, Clarke makes it her mission to learn it. It takes her half the semester to learn that her name's Anya, and another half to do something about the way they look at each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Hard To Get

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Clanya fic! Can you tell I'm excited? Obviously I don't own the source material, either the 100 show or the books. This is unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine. See ya at the bottom!

 

It starts off as a celebration for making it to their senior year of college. It feels more like freshman year than anything, only the promise of going clubbing instead of using fake ids and jumping the fence to the Blake’s neighbor’s pool makes it any different than four years prior. Bellamy and Raven bicker as always, honing in on a ‘lucky lady’ to give one or the other a lick of attention.

 

The girl they choose is surprisingly uninterested in Bellamy, for all his nerdiness there’s charm beneath the surface. But also an inherent machismo, proved when Raven wins $20 bucks the next morning, sporting a grin despite her hangover. As the woman, Lexa, had put it, she was ‘more interested in the other gender that started with a g’.

 

Clarke however, was more drawn to the bartender. Dirty blonde locks framing what was certainly a beautiful face. The shivers down the golden blonde’s back weren’t from the air conditioning over the tables, rather the woman’s icy looks in her direction.

 

It doesn’t take long before the teasing from the group, sans Raven who’s too busy macking on Lexa, leads her to chug down more liquid courage and force herself out of her seat. “Another round of tequila for us now, and maybe we could go ‘round the block to my place later?” Clarke slurs, and she doesn’t think that came out quite the way she wanted it.

 

“Are you asking for a free round or a free ride on me? Because neither is happening.” The bartender doesn’t stop mixing the other orders, barely glancing in Clarke’s direction.

 

“I saw you looking at me.”

 

“I look at everyone here. I don’t want a fight.” The bartender dismisses her again. She doesn’t pour any tequila.

 

“But you looked at me more.” Reason number she doesn’t even know of why she doesn’t drink: Drunk Clarke is a persistent Clarke.

 

“You were staring at me. Gaping, even. I’m trying to figure out what your deal is. You wanna hand out some cash for the round or just sit there and take up space?” She puts more than enough on the counter and orders another before chugging the freshly poured alcohol. She ignores the burn because maybe the bartender’s eyes sparked with what she hoped was curiosity. Maybe lust, if she was really lucky. 

  
She wasn’t.

 

*

 

It’s literally all of her friend’s favorite bar. Grounders, as they see it, is the pinnacle of clubs. There’s dancing and drinks, sure, like all the rest of them. In every city. But this one’s special, and it has nothing to do with the fact that all of them know she has it bad for the bartender. It’s just the lights or something that add that extra kick.

 

This weekend she doesn’t get as drunk before speaking to the bartender, who still has no name unfortunately. But the same amazing cheekbones as seven days before. She knows she’d run her wallet into the ground to touch them. To touch _her._ “What’s your name?”

 

“Guess.” Okay, that’s getting somewhere, Clarke supposes.

 

“Sarah.”

 

“Way off the mark.” The mysterious woman remarks when there’s a lull in orders. She busies herself with cleaning glasses instead of facing Clarke.

 

“Jessica.”  


“The first one was almost the right number of letters.” She’s been cleaning the same glass for more than double the time it should take.

 

“Maria.”

 

“You’re not going to guess it.” She fills another order, and Wells has to walk slowly to carry the amount of beers for the group that Clarke was supposed to get.

 

“Emily.”

 

“Still not it.”

 

“So tell me.” Clarke hopes that her cleavage will do her another favor. The woman behind the bar looks at them, dark eyes definitely shining with lust and maybe her jaw slacks before she schools her features again.  


“You haven’t even told me yours. That’s not very fair.” She has to reign in her features again when she looks into clear blue eyes.

 

“It’s Clarke.”

 

“It’s,” the other woman’s long fingers gently circle the rim of Clarke’s beer, “not on the house.”

 

*

 

Some time after the fifth week of refusals from the bartender, Clarke decides to call it off. Really, she does. She won’t go back this weekend. She’ll stay home and watch Netflix. Or go to a different bar.

 

When the weekend comes, she scratches the plan. “Okay but I won’t order from the bar. One of you is getting drinks instead.” She drags her finger through the air towards the rest of the crew. Raven only scoffs knowingly.

  
“You’ve got the hots for her, blondie. But maybe she’s more into brunettes?” She pretends to not notice Clarke’s red tipped ears when she makes good on her word later on that night.

 

The next weekend is unsurprisingly the same. But Raven doesn’t manage to snag the tall, stoic bartender again. “She said it was more of a one time thing.” She sighs through a wince at the burn of whiskey. Half the semester passes the same way. _Senior year couldn’t be going better._ Clarke thought, stressing not only over her looming midterms, but the way the bartender - Anya, she now knows - has been glancing at her when she doesn’t come over to order the groups next round of shots. _Fuck it, one more look and I’ll give in._ She doesn’t last another fifteen seconds before just going up anyway.

 

“Your name is Anya.”

 

“Detective Clarke, nice of you to join me.” She’d noticed that Raven and the blonde came in together along with their other friends. She couldn’t keep the name game going forever afterall.

 

“Yeah, and this detective’s been noticing other things too. Like the way you look at me.”  


“I told you the first time you were here-”

 

“Yeah. But we’ve been coming here all fall. If we were gonna start a fight we already would’ve, right?” Anya turns a little too late, Clarke sees the slight smirk on her face. It suits her. “So what you’re really doing,” she leans over the counter, showing off her assets once again, “is checking me out.”

 

“You’re drunk.”  


“I haven’t had a drink since I’ve been here.” That wasn’t completely accurate, she’d had a sip of O’s margarita. Still, her determination to get to know Anya was overwhelming. “You’re just making excuses.”

 

“Excuses for what? If I was checking you out I wouldn’t lie about it. I’m allowed to check people out, aren’t I?”

 

“You’ve done it every time I’ve been here. And the last time I showed you these,” she skims a finger over her cleavage, “you were more than a little distracted.”

 

“You already know you’re hot, Clarke.” Well she hadn’t been expecting that.

 

“You think I’m hot?”

 

“Everyone in this place _knows_ you are.” She goes back to making drinks, having been ignoring the calls from farther down the bar in favor of talking to the other blonde. She doesn’t look back Clarke’s way until she’s long gone from the bar stool.

  
Clarke doesn’t come back the next week and maybe, only maybe, is Anya worried. When everyone _but_ her shows up the weekend after, she asks Wells. “She’s just been really stressed lately. Working on a lot of projects.”

 

“Well tell her,” she pauses only a second, but it’s enough for Wells to see her face morph into an indecipherable look before it’s back to it’s stoicism. “Tell her Anya says hi.”

 

Clarke is back the Saturday marking the end of midterms, having had plenty of time in the day to sleep off her stress. She doesn’t bother with the pretense of sitting with her friends, instead opting to go towards a person who she now knows cares way more than she lets on. “Hi.”

 

Anya deals with the other customers before pressing her palms against the bar, dark brown eyes boring into sky blues. “How were midterms?”

 

She blinks, caught off guard. She hadn’t actually expected Anya to ask about them. “I passed. Flying colors mostly.”

 

Anya nods, glad that Clarke’s stress is seemingly gone. Her shoulders are relaxed, like the first time she was at the bar. Only now she doesn’t have a drink or five in her, and it shows. “I did too.” She lets the slip of information out easily, figuring she should at least give the girl something worthy of her time spent with her instead of her friends.

 

“You’re at Polis too?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Clarke knows that’s all she’ll get on the topic, so she tries for another. “So how old are you?”

 

“22.”

 

Well then. She might be getting somewhere afterall. “Me too.”

 

“What do you study?” Anya diverts the attention back to Clarke. Clarke has to work to worm open Anya’s pages but Clarke’s been open the moment she looked at the bar months ago.

  
“Art. Emphasis in Painting. I draw, on the side.” Clarke can’t keep the dreaminess out of her voice. Anya makes a note to see if their are any student works around Polis’ campus with the same name.

 

“I’m political science. Pre-law.” Again, the words come tumbling out easier than she thought. “More into pro bono work than corporate.

 

“Glad to hear it.” Clarke goes on about her favorite works and painters, and Anya is attentive though she offers nothing more about herself.

 

*

 

When Grounders announces that they’re hosting an ‘End of Finals’ party for Polis students, none of the seniors think twice before making plans to be there. Clarke finds herself in a slim fitting black dress, sporting black heels, red lips, and curled hair to match. She finds Anya not behind the bar, but standing off on the side of the dance floor, nursing a beer. “Hey Anya.” She doesn’t hesitate to steal a glance at the other woman’s get up, noticing the distinct lack of a dress and the definite collar of a dress shirt in the dim light.

 

“Hello, Clarke.” She downs the rest of the beer before saying anything else, and Clarke takes the time to admire her long neck and broad shoulders. “Fancy seeing you here, huh?” She doesn’t bother to reserve her smirk this time.

 

“Yeah, it’s my first time here actually.” Clarke jokes. “My first time ever in a club, I’m not even sure how to dance.” She’s not sure what her plan is, but when Anya looks at her knowingly and holds out a hand, she’s glad she said it.

 

“I’ll teach you.” Clarke ends up with her back pressed against Anya’s chest, the taller woman gripping her hips and trying to ignore how _warm_ Clarke is under the thin material of the dress. “What else do you want to learn tonight?” Clarke has a feeling Anya knows _exactly_ what she wants to learn.

 

“Well I have some experience,” she takes the liberty of turning around in Anya’s arms, locking her hands behind her neck and bringing Anya’s face close enough to smell the sweetness of the gum she had on the way over. “But I’d like to learn how to make you scream.”

 

*

 

The first round she only learns how to make Anya grunt, but with the combination of barely there moans and gasps, the end result is still satisfying on both ends. Anya seems to know Clarke even though she’s told her nothing of what she likes in bed, hands roaming and stopping in all the right places, hooking fingers right where she has no idea how Anya knows to, but she falls over the edge anyway.

 

Anya’s tongue finds the spot the same easy way her fingers came to it, flicking her thumb over Clarke’s clit and running the other over a pert nipple while Clarke can do little else besides ride out the waves of pleasure over Anya’s face and tighten her grip in the thick of her hair.

 

Clarke agrees that fingers aren’t enough a while after they’ve lost count of the rounds. She tightens the harness over her hips, enjoying the gentle rub of the dildo against her clit before running a solitary finger down Anya’s spine, relishing in the fact that she has been given this power over the taller woman. She presses the head of the strap on slowly into Anya’s slick entrance, encouraged by the woman’s soft gasp of her name. The faster and rougher she thrusts the more incoherent Anya becomes. She may or may not have screamed when Clarke reached under her to massage her clit and throw her off the edge.

 

The strap on is discarded after another use with Clarke on top again but latched over Anya’s sex. The next few hours find Clarke resting her head on Anya’s chest and snoring lightly with their arms around each other.

 

*

 

When Clarke wakes up the next morning she isn’t surprised that Anya isn’t there, nor that she slipped out without Clarke noticing. She’s always been a heavy sleeper. What she doesn’t expect however, is a note on the other side of the pillow. _‘I figured I’d played hard to get enough at this point. Come back to Grounders today, I won’t say I want us to be a one time thing.’_

 

Anya doesn’t say anything at all, at least not until after she pulls Clarke into a kiss. It’s tender, unlike the last week’s, which was more fueled by lust and passion rather than a possible mutual feeling of, well, whatever they were. “I don’t have a thing for brunettes. Just pretty women.” Her voice changes then. It’s softer this time, more so than ever before. She can’t stop herself from wondering when she became such a sap. “And you, Clarke, are just about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Oh right, when she saw Clarke for the first time back in August.

 

“Yeah, you are too Anya, what’s the big deal?” Clarke doesn’t miss the change in her tone and thinks it may mean something, but really, who knows with Anya?

 

“Will you go on a date with me?” Anya doesn’t do flowers. At all. But she maybe does free beer, pressing one into Clarke’s hand as she asks.

  
“Yes. Preferably at a coffee shop considering I like other drinks than just alcoholic.” She smiles brightly through her agreement, and maybe Anya smirks just a bit wider than usual.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still a little worried about the ending because it's slightly ooc for Anya I think, but let me know what you all think in the comments. Kudos' are super appreciated(and yes, I plan on writing more fics in this universe, I won't be able to help myself)!


End file.
